My first day on the psych ward. After a torturous meeting with one of the doctors, who looked oddly like Jerry from Parks and Rec, only meaner, and after having my body gone over in search of damage, kind of like when you drop off your car to get body work done (Hey, you came in here with that, so we didn't do that to you), I was shown to my room. The first thing I noticed was that there were two beds in there, so the possibility of getting a roommate was very real. It never happened, but if it did, I was prepared with a bowel full of farts to discourage any stranger from assaulting me. And then I was left to my own devices.
I asked if I could get the books I brought with me. I had to assure them that none of the three were hardcover, because apparently hardcover books could be used as weapons on the psych ward. They said they would see what the doctors had to say, and then I sat down at the desk provided to me in the room. Much to my surprise, the former patient for my room was a reader and had left all their books behind. I decided to pass the time by reading one of them.
I chose Empire by Gore Vidal because Vidal was the only author I knew of the bunch. I'd read essays by him previously, and I was very familiar with his screenplay for the notorious Caligula film. I'd never read any of his novels, so I gave him a try. I thoroughly enjoyed it to the point that I took it with me when they let me go. It turns out that this is part four of his take on American history. The first is simply called Burr because one of the characters learned that he was the illegitimate son of Aaron Burr (which apparently wasn't an uncommon thing back then; Burr fucked like a maniac). Empire covers the period of time leading up to the so-called American Century. It tries its best to explain why our backwoods isolationist country decided to become the biggest empire since Britain. I did some research, and it turns out that Vidal really, really put his all into this. A lot of it is historically accurate (though there are some artistic licenses taken). Still, you know what they say about who writes the history books, so we can never be too sure.
This book introduced me to one of the great unsung public figures of the late 19th century: John Hay. I remembered from history class very little about him, but when you look him up, he truly was important. He had no idea that he was, but by the time of his death he helped mold the America that our great-grandparents stood witness to. He was a very close friend and confidant to Abraham Lincoln, who was the first US president to die before his very eyes. Every dead president from then to McKinley had Hay in their presence. Hay is a fascinating guy, but what made me enjoy the portrayal most is that he plays it like a misanthrope. He and Teddy Roosevelt get along, but Hay is one of the many people who make fun of him constantly. If you like history as much as I do, I highly recommend you do some research into Hay.
Hay has stuck with me ever since I got off the psych ward. There are two masterful scenes with him in this book. The one I'll not speak of. You have to experience that for yourself. The other? Well, allow me to quote, and I think you'll get why I got so much pleasure from this book.
Quote: There was a long, loud applause, as Theodore finished. In the north a black cloud appeared. Taft helped Hay up. To Hay's surprise, Taft asked, "Was it here that Lincoln gave his last inaugural address?"
Hay nodded. "Yes. Right here. I remember now. There was rain at first. Mr. Johnson, the Vice-President, was drunk. Then the rain stopped, and the President read his speech."
Taft looked thoughtful. "I know that speech by heart."
"We never suspected, then, that we were all so--historical. We just saw ourselves caught up in this terrible mess, trying to get through the day. I remember there was applause before he had finished one sentence." Hay had the odd sense that he was now, if not in two places at once, in the same place as two different times, simultaneously, and he heard, again, the President's voice rise over the applause, and say with great simplicity the four terrible words: "And the war came."
"We lost a generation." Taft was oddly flat.
"We lost a world," said Hay, amazed that he himself had survived so long in what was now, to him, so strange a country.
OK, me again. There is one more thing I'd like to say before I post this and go to bed. We almost had a Trump situation just after the turn of the century. Thank fuck no one in their right mind took William Randolph Hearst seriously. This book was written long before Trump even thought about running for president, but with my modern eyes, I can't help but make the comparison. A business tycoon with no regard for truth, creating wars just to make insane amounts of money, all in the name of making sure that he is worshipped throughout the rest of history? Yeah, that does sound pretty familiar. For those who don't remember very much about our history, Hearst started the Spanish American War simply to sell newspapers. In retrospect, it was considered Yellow Journalism. I can't help but think that while Hearst is gone, he still has a grandson in charge of his mega conglomerate fuck fest. I've said it here before, and I'll say it again. History is not that far behind us. Life is a constant cause and effect. I'm certain that we're in this horrible second Civil War because of all the crazy bullshit Hearst flung, like a monkey at the zoo throwing feces at visitors. And somehow his visitors ate it all up.
Does that, too, sound familiar?
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